The Godfather’s Accidental Wife

Gianna’s POV

The knife slipped. Blood welled up on my index finger, bright red against the white flour dusting my hands and I stared at it for a moment before the pain registered.

"Shit." I sucked the wound into my mouth, tasting copper and salt.

I glanced around the culinary school kitchen to make sure no one had noticed. Chef Laurent would have my head if I bled on his prep station.

But the kitchen was empty. It was almost midnight and I was the only idiot still here, perfecting a damn croissant recipe that refused to cooperate.

I have been here for four months to prove to my parents that this wasn't a waste of time. That I wasn't wasting my potential or throwing away my future or whatever other disappointed phrases they liked to throw at me during family dinners.

The croissant dough sat on the counter, mocking me. I've been working on this recipe for three weeks and it still wasn't right. The butter kept melting before I could fold it properly.

My phone buzzed in my apron pocket. I ignored it but it continued. With a sigh, I wiped my hands on a towel and pulled it out. Three missed calls from my mother and father. A text from my brother that just said: Call Mom. It's important.

Important. In my family, "important" could mean anything from a business deal to a distant cousin's engagement announcement. My father ran what he called an "import-export" business and my mother managed the social side of things.

I called my mother back.

"Gianna." Her voice was tight in that queenly way she’s perfected. "Come home. Now."

"Mom, it's midnight. I'm in the middle of —"

"I don't care what you're in the middle of. Get in your car and drive home. Your father and I need to speak with you."

She hung up before I could respond. I stared at the phone, a cold feeling settling in my stomach. My mother didn't use that tone often. The last time I heard it was when my grandmother died.

I packed up my things quickly, leaving the croissant dough where it was. It would be ruined by morning.

The drive to my parents' house took forty-five minutes. The house was lit up when I pulled into the circular driveway. Every window blazed and I could see shadows moving behind the curtains. My father's black Mercedes was parked out front, along with two other cars I didn't recognize.

I walked inside without knocking. They were all in the study. My father sat behind his mahogany desk, his face carved from stone. My mother stood by the window, her back to me. My brother Marco leaned against the bookshelf, his expression unreadable.

And in the chair across from my father sat a man I didn't know. He was older, maybe fifty with silver-streaked hair and cold eyes. His suit probably cost more than my car. He held a glass of whiskey in one hand and watched me enter with the casual interest of someone observing an animal.

"Gianna." My father's voice was cold as usual. "Sit down."

I didn't sit. "What's going on?"

"Sit. Down."

The command cracked through the room like a whip. I sat.

My father exchanged a glance with the stranger, then cleared his throat. "This is Mr. Visconti. He represents certain...interests that our family has been associated with for many years."

"Okay," I said slowly. "And?"

"And our arrangement with those interests is being...renegotiated." My father's jaw tightened. "The Visconti family has requested a union. A marriage."

The words hung in the air and I waited for the punchline. For someone to laugh. For my mother to turn around and tell me this was some kind of sick joke.

"Excuse me?" My voice came out high. "A marriage? To who?"

"To Don Visconti." The stranger spoke for the first time, his voice smooth and cold. "The head of the Visconti family. He has requested you as his bride."

I looked at my father waiting for him to say something. He just sat there, his face pale, his hands folded on the desk.

"You're serious." I stood up, my chair scraping against the hardwood floor. "You're actually serious."

"Gianna, sit—"

"No." I backed toward the door. "No, this is insane. I'm not marrying some stranger. I'm in school. I have a life. I have—"

"You have nothing." My mother finally turned and her eyes were dry, hard. "You have a hobby that we've allowed you to pursue for far too long. You have dreams that are never going to amount to anything. And now you have a duty to this family."

"Duty?" I laughed and the sound was ugly. "You're selling me. That's what this is. You're selling me to some old man so you can keep your business deals intact."

"Gianna." Marco's voice was low, warning.

"Don't." I pointed at him. "Don't you dare. You all knew."

"We found out tonight," Marco said. "The Don made his offer. It's not something we can refuse."

"Watch me."

I turned and walked out of the study, slamming the door behind me. I made it halfway down the hallway before my mother caught up, her heels clicking against the marble floor.

"Gianna, stop."

I didn't stop.

"Gianna!" She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. "You listen to me. This is not a choice. The Visconti family is not something you say no to. If you refuse, they will not just destroy your father's business. They will destroy this entire family. Do you understand?"

I yanked my arm free. "What about what he'll do to me? Do you even know what kind of man he is?"

My mother's face went very still.

"I know enough. And I know that your father and I have protected you from this world for your entire life. We kept you out of the business. We let you go to your little cooking school." Her voice hardened from that queenly one. "Now it's time to repay that."

I stared at her, searching for guilt or remorse or hesitation. None whatsoever.

"There has to be another way," I whispered.

"There isn't." She turned away. "The wedding is the day after tomorrow."

I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me. "What? That's impossible."

"The Don is not a patient man. He's been waiting for this for years." She paused at the doorway to the study. "Clean yourself up. You look like you've been bathing in flpur."

She disappeared inside, closing the door with a soft click.

I stood there in the empty hallway of my childhood home, flour still dusting my hands, blood dried on my finger and realized horrifyingly that my parents were going to let me die.

Because that was what this was. A death sentence.

The rumors about Don Visconti weren't secrets. Even me that is shielded from the world heard them. He was old and cold ans cruel. He killed his first wife -some said because she'd disobeyed him, others because she'd been unfaithful. His reputation for cruelty with women was whispered about.

I walked back to my car on numb legs. I sat in the driver's seat and stared at the steering wheel for a long time, my mind racing in circles.

They've sold me. My own parents sold me to a monster and they hadn't even blinked.

I took a deep breath snapping out. I wasn't going to die for a family that wouldn't shed a tear at my funeral!

The plan started forming before I even reached the highway. It was half-baked probably insane but it was something.